


The Spirit of Hospitality

by whereitwillgo



Category: The Beatles
Genre: F/M, Heterosexual Sex, M/M, Other, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Threesome, just a little bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 05:43:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15042023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereitwillgo/pseuds/whereitwillgo
Summary: A party at Cavendish, and Paul's reckless mood, leads John and Paul to an unexpected encounter.





	The Spirit of Hospitality

**Author's Note:**

> This hasn't been properly beta'd, so I apologize for any errors.

It was nearly two a.m. and the party had quieted as people drifted out to the garden to sit under the stars, or into corners and empty rooms to be alone. This was the third such gathering at Paul's house this week. Since he'd moved in he was extending invitations left and right, a never ending housewarming.

John watched a girl in a short yellow dress sway near the record player as she flipped the record and placed the needle; something new he didn't recognize. He found her deliberateness a comfort through the haze of his high. She ran her fingers along the album spines with the care of a gardener tending roses. He scratched his nails against the fabric of the sofa, enjoying the vibrations in his fingers. He was mellow, a bit warm. His body hummed. The weed, courtesy of a some grinning friend of a friend of Mal's, was stronger than the usual sort the random grinners brought. They were good for something, on occasion.

The girl slid onto the couch beside him, into the crook of his arm, and rested her head on his shoulder. He started to pull away, but caught himself. When had he become such a drag? He thought he remembered being introduced to her earlier in the evening. She'd arrived with a gaggle of girls from the record label. “The record label” presumably had meant _their_ record label, but no one had said that. It would have been uncool to point out the economic ties that bound. He'd been talking to Paul, who was still going on about a song John thought was finished, leave well enough alone. They'd both nodded hello to the girls, and sent them on their way. It was too early to pay attention to girls or they'd be stuck to your side all night. And the longer they stayed there, the more they thought maybe they could stay even longer. Besides, at whatever point they wanted female company it could be gotten. _For a song_ , as the saying went.

“It's one of those nights,” she sighed and wiggled deeper into the couch, closer to his side. Her eyes scanned the room, inviting him to conspire.

“What sort?” he asked. Her ease, her confidence, the knowingness of her, had him curious. She was all right, he had decided.

“Feels like anything could happen. Worth remembering, you know?” She was the sort who had premonitions. Signs and auras and vibes and all that. Of course it was all rot, but he preferred people who had feelings about things that weren't real to those who had no feelings about things that were.

“Already looking forward to looking back?” He mocked.

Her dark hair fell forward as she cocked her head to the side, a little too fuzzy to be a proper scold.

“Has anyone ever told you you've got a way with words?” She kept a straight face and so he let himself smile.

“I've got a way with other things, as well,” he waggled his eyebrows impishly, and she shook her head at him, but he saw a pink blush bloom on her cheeks.

He'd made up his mind to drag her off somewhere when Paul came in from the garden, steering an unsteady brunette by her elbow. She pressed herself into his side, entwining her fingers in his. Paul whispered against her ear and her smile was luminous in response to whatever he'd said. She glanced around the room, pretending to be bashful for the people she hoped were watching.

John had seen that particular smile more times than he could count: the smile of a girl who was getting exactly what she wanted. Namely, Paul, who was always so keen to please. Somehow he made them feel like they were getting away with something; a bargain at a flea market that you'd better take before someone realized they'd undervalued their goods. It made it easy for him later. A kiss on the cheek, a murmur about what a nice time he'd had, and as he smiled and slipped out of bed never to be seen again they felt _lucky_. And maybe they were.

It was a trick John had never quite mastered. After he was finished, and whatever power lust had to manifest charming words had abandoned him, he always became too curt, wondering what really, had been in it for them? Only wanting to get away before they asked him to leave.

John tore his eyes away from Paul, casting about the room for somewhere safer to look. But then he felt Paul's eyes on him. He'd grown used to the unconscious connection and had stop questioning that he could _feel it._ He glanced up, and they had a whole conversation without speaking.

Paul quirked his head at the girl in the yellow dress with her head nuzzled into John's neck. _Who's this then?_

John raised his eyebrows as if offended by the accusation. _Her? She's my lab partner._

Paul's eyes laughed and he shrugged toward the girl at his own side. _Not sure about this one. Not my type._

The girl fiddled with Paul's shirt collar like he was a sweet she'd been saving for later, but was now having a hard time leaving in the wrapper.

John rolled his eyes. _Early to bed with a book then?_

Paul slid his hand down the girl's back, caressing her ass lewdly for John's benefit. _Maybe not just yet... this part I quite like._

The girl had been swaying absently to the music, but this was all the encouragement she needed to stretch up on her toes and kiss Paul, a hand in his hair, the other snaking around his waist to pull him closer. She stumbled a bit, and Paul's arms encircled her to keep her from falling. He laughed into her mouth.

John could see he was trying not to get too caught up. Not here, in public, where anyone could see. The gentleman routine. Classic Macca, playing hard to get with a girl that was already gotten. Soon he leaned into the kiss though, as it was, after all, just an act. His kiss was like everything he did; thorough, sensual, a little cheeky, a bit more than you'd have bargained for by looking at him. Ultimately done to please himself but if you enjoyed it too, all the better.

Paul pulled away. Gathering her hands firmly in his own, prying them from his skin. He cocked his head at her in warning, like he would to a naughty child. _Stop that or you'll be sorry,_ he promised. The flirt, the goddamn tease. John's stomach plummeted helplessly.

Paul looked back up at John, his mouth wet and open, his cheeks flushed, his doe eyes hooded with lust. A grin twitched at the corner of his lips as he realized John had been watching the whole time, and John understood how someone had first conjured the idea of Cupid's arrows; an electric bolt shot through his body, directed somewhere a bit lower than his heart.

The girl pulled Paul toward the darkened hallway that led to the rest of the house. He winked at John as he stumbled backward after her, coltishly. Finally, he turned away from John and collided with the girl and they laughed and tripped over each other.

Paul passed the little upright piano by the doorway of the living room and, without pausing, ran his fingers across the keys, playing a quick four-note melody that John's fingers itched to finish. The smug prick couldn't even leave him in peace while he snuck off for a shag.

John had nearly forgotten about the girl curled against his own side. But a thoughtful hum drew his attention. She examined John's face like it had been rearranged in front of her.

“He's trouble,” she said.

 _He's trouble, she said_. Could be a song. One of those daft little easy-as-pie tunes they used to write sitting on Paul's bed. Showing off, just an excuse to sit eye to eye, knees and elbows bumping, feeling the magic between them that all these years later he was still trying to pin down and find a name for.

“Bollocks, don't you read the papers? He's the nice one. I'm trouble,” John said, as he pulled her into his lap, done thinking about Paul for as long as he could manage it.

She giggled, her head falling back like a dead weight. She was high, but he wasn't sure on what. Maybe the grinner's extra strength pot. Not that it mattered much to him what was making her loose-limbed and languid across his lap.

“What's your name then?” He whispered.

“Do you care?” She mimicked his whisper.

“Not hardly.”

“Sally.”

She searched his face, running her fingers over the stubble on his chin, a thumb over his bottom lip. She was entranced, like she was barely aware of him as a person anymore, just an assembly of shapes and colors, sensations to experience. He let her go on like that for who could guess how many minutes, it soothed his nerves to watch her watching him.

He liked them they were like this. Tactile and single minded. When they were like this they writhed beneath you and moaned and grabbed for you and grabbed at themselves. Out of their heads. None of that wondering what would happen tomorrow, or if they were doing it right, or whether they were pretty enough, or whatever it was women were always worrying about that made you feel like they were enjoying themselves against their own will, if at all.

He was tempted to pick her up and carry her, worried that making her walk might bring her back to earth, but before he could do anything, she slipped from his arms and stood before him, pulling him to his feet.

She led him down the same dark hallway where Paul had disappeared. As he followed, he paused at the piano to play the same bit Paul had, the little 4-note melody, and then he added a few more notes to complete the phrase. Another Lennon/McCartney Original.

Near the back of the house was a room furnished as an office, but not actually used as such. There was an enormous old desk that Paul had purchased at an antique store with Jane. Big as a Cadillac with ornate carvings in the deep, rich wood. The type of monstrosity at home in the chambers of some powder-wigged lawyer. John could smell the pipe tobacco and titles on it. He imagined Jane calling the desk “a good investment” and Paul nodding, very sensibly, as if he might someday take up writing legal briefs as a hobby.

John had decided he'd quite like to fuck Sally on Paul's respectable desk.

He pulled her into the room, kissing her and hitching her skirt up. They stumbled and fell onto the sofa just inside the door. He made a playful “oof” sound as they landed and Sally giggled and slipped a hand beneath his shirt, cool fingers skimming across his stomach. He forgot about the desk, forgot about everything but the feel of her beneath him, his tongue in her mouth and the blood pounding in his ears.

The flick of a lighter, and a long, slow inhale made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It was him, of course. John recognized the sound. The smell of the pot hanging in the air registered belatedly at the back of his mind.

“Bloody hell,” John groaned. Not having heard anything, Sally chased after him as he pulled away, her nimble fingers taking advantage of the distance to make quick work of his trouser buttons.

“Don't let me stop you,” Paul said. He lounged in the big leather desk chair, admiring the smoke as he pushed it from his lungs. Sally jumped at the sound of Paul's voice, then laughed and hid her face against John's chest.

Paul looked her over, his face bloomed. S _he's a bit of fun then, isn't she?_

“None of that, now,” Paul said to her. “No need to be embarrassed.” John noted the seductive lilt in his voice. Was he really trying to chat up the bird currently pressed against John's open trousers? Paul pouted. _Just being polite_.

“What're you doing, Paul?” He asked, already fed up with the game, whatever the game was.

In answer, Paul proffered his joint with an elegant turn of his wrist. John dismissed it without a glance.

“What happened to your girl? The brunette?”

Paul's eyebrows knit together thoughtfully as he took another hit, like he couldn't think why John would be asking. He waved a hand through the smoke, making it curl and dance. “Had to go.”

“There's an idea.” John jerked his head toward the door.

“You can stay,” Paul said, magnanimously, biting back a smirk.

“Paul --”

“My house, innit?” He lifted his chin in challenge, the prideful Scouse routine. “What about you, love? You don't mind if I stay, do you?”

Their silent connection failed him. Paul had skipped ahead and left him tripping over his feet to catch up. They'd had years of pulling birds together, showing off for each other, the girls themselves practically an afterthought. A means to an end, inconsequential in and of themselves. Grappling against brick walls in back alleys and slouched low in corner booths; sweaty nights in tiny hotels, side by side, hearing each other, smelling each other, seeing each other. It was so common, so inextricably tied to the feeling of getting off that even when John was alone, pleasuring himself, an image would pop into his mind unbidden: Paul grinning over the shoulder of some girl in his lap or on her knees between his legs. Sometimes no girl. Sometimes just Paul, bedroom eyes and soft mouth beckoning.

It was always happenstance, not enough rooms, too hard to find privacy, not a plan. But never this, never Paul asking to watch. John was frozen, working to keep his face neutral. _Yes, Paul. Stay, Paul. Yes, yes, yes._ John thought, but he couldn't say it. That wasn't how it worked at all.

He realized that Paul hadn't asked _him._ And he realized _why_ Paul hadn't asked him. He'd asked Sally and Sally, bless her, was the kind who knew about signs and auras and vibes. She didn't need to be told John's answer.

“Your house, innit,” she echoed, running a teasing finger up John's thigh. Paul dug his teeth into his bottom lip. _Well, what have we gotten ourselves into now, Johnny?_

John's mind was doing cartwheels trying to guess what Paul was planning, afraid he'd missed something and, as unexpectedly as he'd offered it, he'd take it away again. He was grateful when Sally pushed him down and straddled his hips. The heat of her against him drew his attention away from Paul. Her soft tongue pressed between his lips, her breath hot against his cheeks, almost made him forget Paul was there watching. He gripped her ass, dragging her down against his straining cock. He heard a soft grunt of amusement from Paul at his urgency and it made John feel frantic.

He kissed his way up her neck, ravenous, and pulled her dress apart where it wrapped across her breasts. She wasn't wearing a bra and he nuzzled his way to a taut nipple, sucking it into his mouth. Every moan and gasp that escaped her lips made him feel primal and masculine, spurred on by his audience. He could put on a show. He heard Paul shift in his chair, the sound of his breath quickening.

“Tell her what you like, Johnny.”

 _Fucking Christ._ John opened his eyes, intending to tell Paul to fuck off, but the sight of him sitting in the darkness, watching raptly, eyes dark, banished every thought from John's mind and replaced them with a thousand things he'd like, none of which concerned the girl in his lap.

“Right, then. I will,” Paul said to John's long silence, and he discarded the joint in a businesslike manner. There was an edge to his voice, a husky quality that could have been blamed on the pot but John knew was arousal. “There's a spot, right at the base of his neck...”

Dutifully, Sally pulled John's face up and tipped his head back, running her tongue across the hollow at the base of John's his neck. Goosebumps spread across his body. A giddy thrill shot through him: Paul knew him better than anyone, knew when to coax, when to resist, when to be coy and when to be direct. And now to find that he'd paid attention to what John liked _in bed,_ that he might be just as adept at pushing John's buttons there, too. It was too much, more than he'd ever imagined, like asking for a glass of water and being given the ocean.

“No need to be gentle, love.”

Sally dragged her teeth across John's heated flesh and sucked on his collar bone. John let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He felt heavenly, every inch of him tingling as the blood raced through his veins.

“Your nails. In his hair,” Paul said. John moaned and arched into her hand as she followed Paul's instructions.

“Christ,” he whispered, not realizing he'd said anything until he heard Paul chuckle.

“Like a cat, our Johnny. Scratch him in the right spot and he'll curl up in your lap.”

John was close already, and Paul probably knew that too. Paul was playing him like a bloody piano and he couldn't just let him. He grazed his hands up Sally's soft thighs and pressed his fingers against her through her panties. She moaned with gratitude. She was warm and wet and he knew it wasn't all for him, but that only excited him more. Sally's breath was short and ragged, her pupils wide as she gazed down on John.

She made a move to slide from John's lap to the floor, glancing at Paul who nodded his approval. There was something intoxicating about pleasing him; he could see it working on Sally. Paul met John's gaze with the same glittering eyes he had on stage when he was really in the spirit, really proud of himself. John clung to her, slowing her slide to the floor with another kiss, unwilling to let her pull away just yet. If he didn't keep hold of something it would all slip away. He felt exposed, like an injured bird Paul could crush, but instead chose to cradle and coo softly to. Finally, he allowed her to sink the rest of the way to the floor.

He sighed with relief as she freed his cock from his trousers. She barely brushed her fingers over the head and his hips bucked involuntarily. Sally moved slowly, maddeningly without urgency. Finally, her mouth finally engulfed him, and she gazed up at him from behind her dark lashes. He groaned and fought to keep his suddenly heavy head up. It was so easy to imagine it was someone else. A different set of dark lashes, different wet, pink lips wrapped around him.

“Been thinking about this since the moment you saw him, haven't you?”

Sally hummed her agreement and a wave of pleasure swept over John from the tip of his cock to the tips of his fingers. _Shut up, shut up._ He wanted to scream. It was excruciating, Sally's mouth and Paul's voice working on him. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He was dizzy.

“That's it. Show me,” Paul instructed. He had moved closer. Now he sat on the edge of the desk, rubbing the heel of his palm lazily against the bulge in his pants. He undid the top button and slid his hand under the waistband as John watched. His eyes were soft, his jaw slack, making him look guileless and lewd at once.

“Paul.” John could hear the desperation in his own voice. He didn't have enough sense left to be embarrassed by it.

“Mmm?” Paul answered, as he stroked himself. John had seen him do this before, of course. He remembered the first time he'd been caught looking, and Paul hadn't looked away. Then that became the new game. John always looked away first, when the pleasure of it was overwhelmed by the fear of his desire; a bottomless pit he might fall into and never be able to climb back out of.

“I want...” John mumbled.

John pushed Sally away, gently. His cock slipped from her mouth with a wet pop. She was dazed, her lips pouting and swollen, her cheeks flushed, hair mussed. She was beautiful and he felt a brief twinge of guilt over how careless they were with people without meaning to be.

John lifted her from the floor and stumbled with her the few feet to the desk. Paul jostled out of the way, looking for a moment like he might object. But as John lay Sally across the desk, Paul put a hand beneath her head and eased her back. John wanted nothing more than to feel Paul's hands on _him._ Anywhere. On his cheek, in his hair, his lips, his tongue. But he wouldn't ask.

Sally was tugging at John's hips restlessly. She looked from Paul to John and back again, swept up in the current between them. John pushed her dress up around her hips. Paul, leaning back on his elbow, caressed her cheek, running a thumb across her mouth. She nipped at it, chasing it with her tongue. Permission granted, he plunged a hand into her dress and gathered her plump tit in his palm. John felt proud of the needy moan that escaped her at Paul's caress.

Impatiently, Sally pulled the hem of her dress from John's hands and dragged it over her head. Popping out again, with a giggle. Paul's eyes sought his again, looking to share his appreciation of this girl.

John felt a stab of jealousy. He didn't want to share, he didn't want Paul thinking about her. He was all animal urges, a bone-deep need to have this play out as he saw fit. John pushed Sally's panties aside and buried himself inside her with a blunt thrust. Her gasp of pleasure was drown out by his groan.

“Fuck.” Paul sputtered, the teasing certainty he'd had just a moment before peeled away. His eyes bounced back and forth between John's face and his slick cock disappearing inside of Sally, over and over. Paul didn't make any attempt to touch her, having understood the meaning of John's possessive thrust. Distantly, John was aware of Sally's gasps, her legs wrapping around his waist, her ankles against his ass pulling him forward. But it didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was Paul.

Paul's hand returned to his cock, his lazy, teasing strokes replaced by insistent pumps. John couldn't look away from Paul's face; his eyes fluttered across the scene, taking in all the details, the details of John. He thought, not for the first time, how much more pleasure he often took in watching Paul's reaction to something than from the thing itself.

“Johnny...” Paul croaked.

“Come on,” John said. Paul's brows knit slightly, like he didn't understand, too lust-drunk to comprehend. John wasn't really sure what he was urging him to do. Something, anything. John wanted to laugh or growl or shout from a rooftop. Paul could come off so clean and well-mannered, but John knew he didn't mind getting his hands dirty. He didn't mind a bit of sweat and mess to get what he wanted. He could be selfish and demanding and downright brutal when his mind was set on something. John wanted to be the something.

“Come on,” John said. “Paul. Do it.”

Paul grabbed John's shirt, twisting it in his fist, pulling him forward until their faces were just inches apart. He hesitated and John made the decision for him, reaching between them and wrapping his fist around Paul's cock. Paul gasped and shuddered and swallowed his shock. He looked like he might weep with gratitude. John was certain he'd never forget the sight, and the feel of his hard cock heavy in his hand.

It seemed to last forever, the moment just before Paul's lips collided with his own. The kiss was firm, but tender despite the urgency. It was strange and familiar at once, like deja vu. They quickly found a cadence that suited them, unsure who was leading or following, their lips and tongues chased each other around in endless circles. Paul's fingers entwined in John's hair to ensure he couldn't pull away.

Sally lifted her ass to find an angle that pleased her more. John wasn't sure how long he could keep this up, thrusting into Sally, stroking Paul and melting into his kiss, but the best way to keep your rhythm, he knew, was not to think about it too much. He went about both tasks fast and loose, his heart slaked with adrenaline, charging forward because to do anything else would be a calamity.

“John...John. I...Jesus, John,” Paul rambled against John's mouth. John stroked him faster, unsure what he was asking for. He'd never seen him like this, incoherent, transparent with need, out of control.

Paul pulled at John's clothes, tearing open buttons to slip his hands inside. He ran his rough hands over John's chest, then around his neck where he dug little half-moons with his fingernails. He jerked John's head back, dragging his teeth and lips down John's neck, murmuring curses against his skin.

Suddenly, he pitched forward, a sob of pleasure that John could barely hear caught in his throat as he came across John's hand and Sally's leg where it wrapped around John's waist. Then he was kissing John again, greedy and generous at the same time.

John pulled out of Sally abruptly, on the edge of his own orgasm. Before he could do it himself, Paul's hand was on his cock. Still dazed from his own release, at an awkward angle, right-handed, it was an uncoordinated series of jerks. Amateurish. But the raw urgency was shockingly erotic and John was overwhelmed with fondness for him. He came forcefully, shooting across the girl's belly and breasts.

Sally panted, gazing down at the glistening streaks across her body. Suddenly, Paul's hand was there, spreading the mess across her breasts, her stomach, painting her with his fingers. John was transfixed by the instinctive motion, like he hadn't decided to do it but merely known it needed to be done.  
  
Paul looked up at John with a sloppy, satiated grin and John let out a contented puff of air, feeling thoroughly wrung out. He felt a strange joy bubble over in his chest, like learning the solution to a riddle that had plagued him for days. He leaned forward, unsure of his legs. Sally stifled an amused giggle, at the absurdity of the situation, he supposed. On a different night it might have irritated him, but he was too light hearted to hang on to anything but contentment. He grabbed Paul's hand, needing to hang on to a bit of him while their breathing slowed and their blood cooled.

Then he felt Paul shift. He sat up, looking down at himself, splayed across the desk, softening cock hanging out of his unbuttoned trousers. He removed his hand from John's gently and John felt the moment closing around him.

He wouldn't quite meet John's eyes as he stood and fussed with his trousers and his shirt, exactly like John had seen him do thousands of times before, the most normal thing in the world. And Paul was making a show of his casualness. Sally covered her nakedness with her arms as if an actual chill had descended.

“Paul...” John began with no idea what words should follow. Paul moved past him, grabbing Sally's dress from the floor. John moved aside so Sally could get down from the desk. He grabbed her arm, though she didn't need help, feeling suddenly awkward and useless and guilty.

“I can-- the bathroom...it's just down the hall if...” Paul said to her, motioning generally to the mess of John's come he'd spread across her chest. She nodded gratefully and improbably blushed. Paul handed her the dress with a rueful smile, like he was seeing guests out at the end of an awkward dinner party. John choked back a bitter laugh.

John stared until finally Paul met his eyes. They were distant, defiant. He'd seen that look before, but he hadn't seen it coming this time. He'd thought if they ever made it this far they'd have gotten past the hard part. The admitting it part. He didn't think there was a way to interpret your friend thrusting helplessly into your hands as anything other than a confession of _something._

“Okay?” John asked, feeling the words were lame and inadequate the moment they passed his lips. Paul blinked at him.

“Sure. Course.” He softened a bit, smiled at the floor, mussed his hair. “Got a bit...carried away.”

John could swear he heard the _you_ he'd left out. _You_ got a bit carried away. Paul was making sure John had their story straight. Anger surged through him, followed by a hot flush of shame.

 _You're the one who started this,_ John wanted to shout. Whenever it started, back in the churchyard probably. He was sure it had been Paul from the beginning who had asked to be chased.

Sally, dress in place, looked between them, and Paul somehow found a button that needed fiddling-with. Her eyes settled on John, sadly.

“Come on,” John said. “I'll show her.”

Paul nodded to John, a little too quickly, and turned his attention to Sally He took her chin in his hand and tipped it up, gazing at her with kind eyes. He gave her a gentle kiss on the corner of her mouth. John marveled how he could cast himself as the hero in some maudlin romance at this moment. He hadn't even learned her name, but now he was seeing her off like she was an old friend he regretted he didn't have more time to catch up with.

Sally leaned into John's side and he put an arm around her, grateful for her weight against him as they headed toward the door. It made him feel a bit steadier on his feet. More like a whole person.

As John closed the door behind him, he saw that Paul had turned his back. He shifted from foot to foot, his hand tugging anxiously at the back of his neck. Tense and stewing. John knew there'd be fallout later. They'd argue in the studio. John would reject one of Paul's suggestions without considering it. Paul would offer nothing when he could be of use. He'd disappear for a few days with some girl and come back smirking, hoping someone would ask about it so he could demure humbly. He'd tell everyone too many stories about his art friends, about all the good times he was having with anyone but John.

Then, at some point, hard to say how long it would take, it would pass. John would write a song, a good one, and Paul would make that face, the one John lived for: pride, love, awe. And he would forgive Paul, or Paul would forgive him, depending on who you asked. Paul would welcome him back in, chummy and warm, an inch at a time, until they were just as close as ever, but with the boundaries re-drawn in some new way that only Paul understood. Paul kept him at arm's length but he _kept_ him. John told himself, again, that it was enough.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Savageandwise for encouraging me to post this. You have her to thank or blame.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it despite the loathed original character. Let me know what you think!


End file.
